


exodus

by funeralstrut



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M, Vampire Slayer(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeralstrut/pseuds/funeralstrut
Summary: The tighter Lucifer holds on to those he loves, the quicker everything slips from his grasp.So maybe it's a good thing for Sandalphon that vampires aren't known for letting go.
Relationships: Lucifer/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

When he finds Sandalphon, it is already too late.

Lucifer is by no means a novice hunter. He has witnessed this scene many times over—a pile of bloody corpses with horror on each of their faces, and in the middle of it all, a newborn vampire, only just having calmed down from the frenzy of getting turned. Sometimes the newborn remains still with shock, unable to understand what they have wrought with their own hands. Other times, they snap completely, embracing their new monstrous selves and rampaging until Lucifer or another hunter can arrive to put them down. Always, always, a sea of blood stains the world red.

Lucifer never expected Sandalphon to be the one in the centre of it all.

Meanwhile, Sandalphon has not moved from his spot. It is obvious which category of newborn he falls into; he is still in his barista's uniform, staring blankly at the lifeless bodies of his former coworkers, broken and unmoving. Sandalphon touches the trail of blood dripping from his own lips, traces a large gash on the body closest to him with mutated nails that now taper off into cruel points, and comprehension slowly spreads across his face like acid on flesh. Lucifer watches, and is powerless to stop it.

Someone—one of his enemies—turned Sandalphon to get at him. Lucifer knows this, knows that this is all his fault. But regardless of the circumstances, Lucifer also knows that the Association will not suffer the existence of a vampire. There is no doubt that word has already reached his superiors about this tragedy. It is only a matter of time before someone comes for Sandalphon's head.

That is why there is only one path to take.

“Sandalphon,” he whispers. “Come with me.”

It's helpful that Sandalphon is... cooperative. At the very least, he passively follows Lucifer’s instructions, which makes things easier, but Lucifer's specialty is in killing vampires, not protecting them. It suddenly occurs to him how many different ways there are for Sandalphon to come to harm: the sun's direct rays, a hunter's silver bullet, or even an accidental brush against Lucifer's own blades, forged in true light. And as for how Sandalphon himself is faring, it would be an exaggeration to say that he is adjusted to the situation. Because he has not. He turns away from Lucifer at every opportunity, shame colouring his face.

But there is no avoiding the biggest issue here forever. Sandalphon needs to feed.

He does not admit anything, of course, but to Lucifer's eyes it is obvious. Sandalphon cannot hide the way the way in which his eyes linger on Lucifer's skin, or how he grips his own throat in desperation when he thinks Lucifer is not looking, as if it were possible to choke his thirst away. But it is as futile as trying to dam an ocean with those same hands. The curse is merciless.

It is clear that Sandalphon is not going to broach the topic, so Lucifer takes it upon himself to make the offer.

Sandalphon responds predictably. “Are you _out of your mind?”_ It's the most he's said since they first fled.

“You need sustenance.”

“Am I going to die if I don't?”

“... No. You're immortal now, but—“

“Then I'll go without,” he snaps.

“Then you _will_ go insane,” Lucifer puts, as plainly as he can. Sandalphon must accept the truth. “You’ll become a slave to your thirst, devouring everything that comes in your way. Is that what you want?”

“Didn't you say you were a hunter? Aren't you supposed to put down _beasts_ like me?”

“You're not a beast.”

Sandalphon laughs, a long, bitter laugh that rings through the musty room. Unconsciously or otherwise, he bares his fangs in a broken smile. “I remember enough of what happened. There's no need to pretend.”

 _It's not your fault._ The words don't seem like enough, no matter how true they are—the frenzy of turning is unavoidable—so they hang in Lucifer's throat, and already their intended recipient has turned away, the meagre consolation erased before it can be voiced.

Instead, Lucifer settles next to Sandalphon and begins removing his gear and shirt in silence. Sandalphon does not get up to leave him, and that has to be enough. It is all Lucifer deserves.

The quiet stretches on, but it too breaks quickly enough. “... Why are you helping me?”

In the face of questioning red eyes, Lucifer pauses unbuttoning his shirt. How to answer? _You were my solace. You always offered me a smile, when I dropped by._ It seems like too little, too late to say, now that Sandalphon himself has been violently dragged away from the surface world. Besides, they were hardly friends back then. To Sandalphon, Lucifer was surely nothing more than another regular customer who lingered too long over a cup of coffee and got in the way of his job. There was no way he could understand what that weekly sliver of peace had meant to Lucifer, who had clutched on to it like a drowning man and cost Sandalphon everything as a result. Burdening Sandalphon with that useless knowledge now would only be unfair.

He settles on an answer at last. “I owe it to you.”

Sandalphon knits his eyebrows together, not comprehending, and so Lucifer strokes his hair tenderly, in lieu of the explanation he cannot give. There is no need for Sandalphon to understand. Lucifer will make things right, as best he can.

With his shirt off at last, he gently coaxes Sandalphon's head into the crook of his shoulder. This close, Lucifer can feel Sandalphon's every tremble. How strange. All that training Lucifer has received about facing these supposedly immovable, irredeemable monsters, and yet none of it has prepared him to console the vulnerable man before him, so uncomfortable can hardly keep himself steady. Nevertheless, Sandalphon presses on through his nervousness. He briefly plants a wet kiss onto supple skin: an uncharacteristically tender move in the middle of such carnality. Not that Sandalphon spends much time on the niceties. The warmth of his mouth soon gives way to the pinprick of sharp fangs, which linger, hesitating, for a second... and then Sandalphon bites down _hard._

Lucifer inhales sharply.

Words from the past ring in his ears. _You've never wanted for anything. How could you begin to understand what desire is?_

But there's no time to get lost in his regrets, not while Sandalphon is quickly succumbing to himself. His claws begin to dig painfully into Lucifer's ribs. It's getting more difficult to breathe, but in the face of Sandalphon's desperate _need,_ Lucifer perseveres to stay in the moment. He grips the worn surface of the sofa as Sandalphon keeps biting, licking, drinking, tearing him apart to his core, _wanting_ him in a way that he's never before experienced, and it's—

—it’s—

—nothing more than the instincts of a vampire taking over, Lucifer coldly reminds himself. He _knows_ this. He should know better; he has seen this same thirst reduce countless grown men to rabid animals. Yet Lucifer cannot help but feel that something is amiss. In offering himself, he is only repaying a debt by making up for his previous failure. So why does it hurt to think about this reality? Why does it pierce deeper than the fangs ripping him apart?

The answer comes quite readily to Lucifer, but he does not allow himself to think it. Instead, he repeats a single word in his mind as he struggles not to flinch under Sandalphon's relentless assault. Canaan, Lucifer prays, Canaan, Canaan, Canaan—their spider's thread out of this pit of hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. 2020 was a creatively dead year for me, but here's hoping i can kickstart my brain this year, both on this and on my older fics which i do want to return to. fingers crossed


	2. Chapter 2

"How come I can see myself?"

They’re holed up in a dingy motel room, and Sandalphon is peering into the grimy surface of a mirror that has seen better days, inspecting his reflection in an odd, detached way.

Lucifer joins him at the tiny sink. "The saying that vampires don't have reflections comes from the days when mirrors were made of silver. But as the supernatural faded into myth, folk knowledge ceased to keep up with newer developments in technology." He slowly unwinds the bandages around his neck, where the wounds have already begun to scab over early thanks to the use of healing magic, but it would be a waste of energy to heal them all the way when he could let nature take over once the bleeding stopped. Of course, there had never been any actual blood to wash off—Sandalphon had been thorough—but Lucifer finds himself wondering if even the sight of his wound is a source of temptation all the same. As it turns out, Sandalphon is carefully not looking. But he does not make a move to step away, either. If Sandalphon's thirst has not calmed down, he is doing a good job of faking it.

Lucifer reaches out slowly to Sandalphon's stiff figure, his hand approaching Sandalphon's cheek before Lucifer himself is aware that he is moving. Sandalphon is beautiful and cold to the touch, like a crystal of ice ready to melt at any moment. When he turns his gaze towards Lucifer, his slitted eyes are wide: more prey than predator.

Lucifer's thumb lightly brushes over his lips. "Your features are prominent up close."

Sandalphon remains still—stiller than any human is capable of being. "... I'm sorry?"

"Anyone who gets close to you can tell that your eyes aren't those of an ordinary human's, even if you keep your fangs hidden." Speaking plainly was likely best here. "If you can learn to summon up your magic, it should be within your power to cast an illusory disguise that can hold for a time."

Sandalphon draws away from Lucifer's touch. "Right. Sure. Of course." He tugs his hood down, and as it conceals his eyes, only his weak smile is left vulnerable in the open. "Magic. Don't know if I can do that. I didn't even know it existed a month ago."

"It will come with time."

"Yeah, I just—" His shoulders slump. "This doesn't feel real. I just helped myself to a third of your body weight, and this still doesn't feel real."

A pause.

"Hey. That place you mentioned—Canaan." Sandalphon's voice goes hoarse. "You're not making it up, right?"

“I will get you there,” Lucifer says firmly. “I cannot guarantee that there is a cure to be found for your condition. But my family has guarded the way to Canaan for centuries. No one in living memory has been there, but I inherited the knowledge of how to reach it. If there is a cure, I believe it resides in Canaan, and I will not rest until we exhaust all the possibilities."

Sandalphon sighs. He takes a deep breath that his body no longer needs.

“Promise me—” his voice drops to a whisper “—that one way or another, you will bring this to an end one day. Even if it doesn’t end the way we want it to.”

“Sandalphon...” Lucifer stops. The words sit like lead on his tongue, but there is no saying no. Not here. So he clasps Sandalphon’s hands, cold as they are, and tries to imagine the day that they can radiate warmth once again. He sidesteps the plea. “I will do my best.”

Sandalphon does not call him out on it.

This is how they begin a long summer: unending days spent hiding, and running, and hiding some more, all blending together into a heat haze. Avoiding the police is a hassle, because no amount of magic wards at their disposal can protect them completely from the simple fact that Sandalphon is highly wanted for murder and that everyone knows it. Sensationalised news and internet rumours have already judged him guilty without trial, each piece of speculation more colourful than the last, all centred around this man suspected of slaughtering all his coworkers in broad daylight, a real basket case. They say he lived alone. They say he dropped out of school. They say he had no friends. A record, and no future. They say that the people around him smiled at him and treated him well every day, and that it didn't make an inch of difference for them in the end.

Lucifer is privately glad that Sandalphon had to leave his phone behind when they fled.

Sandalphon’s condition aside, it is not unlikely that the two of them would have been forced to travel by night anyway. The wards that Lucifer casts every day help to keep prying eyes off of them—they whisper to the subconscious, _wouldn't you rather look elsewhere, there's nothing interesting here at all_ —but they cannot work against everyone in a crowd, nor can they stop anyone who is truly curious, or who know what they are seeking. In the end, the wards can only ever be a stopgap measure. Every next pair of eyes could be the ones to expose them to the light.

They take turns sleeping through the daylight hours, each day an exhausting cycle of keeping watch and stealing rest. Lucifer, at least, badly needs the sleep, any bit of it he can get, because providing blood constantly is more of a burden than he can ever admit out loud, with each new wound opening right on the heels of the previous one finally healing up. The scars mark out their harsh journey together, a map on the canvas of his body; he tries to switch out sides as much as he can, to hide how close his flesh is to giving out on some days, but Lucifer fears Sandalphon might be able to sense his weakness anyway. After all, vampires are predators at their core, and Lucifer knows that more intimately than most.

This is the first of many fears that will come to pass.

"Did you really think you could hide it from me?"

Lucifer stretches an aching leg, particularly sore after having borne the brunt of his body weight for the greater part of a harsh trek from where their last hitchhiking stop had dropped them off. A bad stumble during the walk had sprained his ankle, leaving the two of them no choice but to seek a place of rest, but there really had been no spot with uninterrupted shade for the past several miles, and dawn was closer than either of them was comfortable with. They've settled into an abandoned hut on the edge of the woods that has seen better days; the front door has all but fallen off, and wild animals have clearly had the run of the place, but the roof is in one piece, which is what matters most right now.

The muted warmth of this humid summer night means that they do not have to fear the elements, even as exposed as they are, but it does nothing to dull Sandalphon's glare.

Lucifer frowns at the question. "I didn't hide my injury."

"I don't mean that. You've been weak for days now, and you weren't getting better. That's why you slipped and fell in the first place, isn't it?"

"I _am_ getting better, gradually."

"That's not good enough! How can you say that when you can't even walk straight?" A note of fear creeps into Sandalphon's voice, buried under the harsh tone of his heated words. "You're lucky all that happened this time was a sprained ankle!"

Lucifer tries to placate him. "Please don't worry. I am still fit to fight."

As fate would have it, his words are challenged as soon as they are spoken.

Because at that very moment, an arrow sings through the air by Sandalphon's ear, missing by a mere inch as he jerks out of the way with inhuman reflexes.

Half-buried in the ground after missing its target, the tip of the arrow seems to swirl with the aura of a blessed wind—an aura Lucifer recognises immediately. He tackles Sandalphon to the ground as a second shot pierces the empty air behind them. Lucifer knows the archer behind this attack, and he also knows that if he doesn't put himself between them, Sandalphon is not likely to make it to dawn.

"Lucifer," calls a clear, yet urgent voice from the distance. Turning his head, he spots its speaker perched on a nearby cliff, signature bow in hand and another arrow nocked and ready. It's one of his former proteges, standing tall and strong, just like Lucifer taught him to once upon a time. That he is standing on the opposite end of this battlefield almost doesn't matter.

"Come back to us," says Raphael. "Come back to your senses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can be found yelling about lucisan at ainsophist on twitter


End file.
